Through the Glass
by NotMarge
Summary: The love and life of Warm bodies retold from a slightly different perspective.


I do not own Warm Bodies.

I do own a snow globe. It has a dragon in it.

Through the Glass

* * *

><p>All is quiet and still.<p>

I've been here forever.

A little child, she thought I was pretty. My watery world and my swirling snowflakes. My prince and I forever standing upon our bridge holding hands and gazing into one another's eyes.

She brought me here, that child, when they came to look for medicine. And then she forgot about me and left.

And now I'm all alone.

Alone for so long.

In the quiet, empty dust of forgotten space and time.

* * *

><p>They argue and bicker and fight with their eyes and their mouths. The pretty blond and her grim man. That man with the empty eyes. That man who wants to die.<p>

And those around them let them go, unconcerned and undisturbed. It must be a common occurrence.

* * *

><p>He approaches her slowly, the dark-haired zombie man-boy. Hunkers down in front of her. Slowly, so slowly as her terrified eyes travel over his shoulder and see me.<p>

_She_ sees me.

Why does she _see_ me?

Amid all the death and chaos, all the blood and gore, she sees _me_.

And my time stops.

She is beautiful and terrified and vulnerable and seconds away from death.

And yet I catch her eye. Me and my handsome prince trapped in our glass world. On our ceramic bridge. Still, dusty, flitter snow laying all around us.

_Don't be afraid, _I want to relay._ He will not hurt you. He loves you. He will keep you safe. Whatever the cost._

And he does.

He smears gore from his own body onto her face, dampening her living smell. He leans forward a little. She cringes. He smells her. He's an expert in smell. She passes the test.

And then he murmurs dry, dusty words from his zombie throat and bids her rise.

He tugs her away from the blood and death. Pulls her away from it all and toward the outside world.

I see them approach. They're going to be past me in a moment.

_Don't leave me here_, I want to beg. _Take me with you. Away from this stillness and death. Away from this timeless void. Please take me with you._

And he does. I don't even see him look down but he reaches out and grasps my round glass orb carefully in one cold, clammy hand.

He puts me in the pocket of his red hoodie. It's cozy in here.

But it smells bad. It smells like death and decay. What has resided in here before me?

Nevertheless, I am finally going away from this still room of death and murder.

I am going away with him.

Him who is a Corpse.

And did not eat her.

The living.

* * *

><p>It takes forever to journey to our destination.<p>

They are slow. They shamble. They stumble. They lurch.

But he does not drop me. No, not once.

* * *

><p>He takes me out and places me down gently, lovingly on a hard, stable surface.<p>

His gaze, yearning and appreciative all at the same time, lingers on me.

As if I am beautiful. As if I am meaningful. As if I am _valuable_.

He breathes deeply and turns away.

I sit now among piles and piles of other gathered items, collected knickknacks, rescued treasures.

An antique camera and a yellow toy dog flank me in protection and camaraderie.

Placed there by that creature, that so very odd creature. Who desires so desperately to be alive and human.

I sit there and I am safe.

But she is still terrified and crying.

His face contorts as much as an undead thing can.

It pains him to see her weep, to see her flinch away in fear.

_He will not hurt you. He loves you. Can't you see?_

And then in hopes in easing her stressful state, he leaves.

And she sits and cries.

I remain there in my orb, holding the hands of my abiding prince.

* * *

><p>She has moved around the plane.<p>

Out of restlessness, defiance, self-preservation, I do not know.

And found scissors.

She tests their points by stabbing through the fabric of a seat.

They are sharp.

I am glad I am not a plane cushion.

And she waits.

* * *

><p>He comes back.<p>

She crying all over again, afraid and trembling, but determined to live, to survive.

She holds the scissors up, brandishing their sharp points to him to warning.

And he in turn covers her gently, protectively, with a blanket.

And the cold, heavy water of my world feels slightly warmer around me. Comforting.

She does not understand.

And he cannot explain clearly with his cracked zombie intonations.

So he plays music for her.

To show her that she is safe. To show her that he is peaceful.

To show her that he can be patient until she understands.

And she wonders at the mystery of him.

And he gazes upon the life and beauty of her.

And my smooth porcelain fingers remain still upon the hands of my sweet prince.

* * *

><p>It quiet and still here too as she slumbers and he watches. But different. The quiet and still of someone who wants to burst out and be loud and alive and free.<p>

Like her.

Like him.

Like me.

She awakens with the sun, huddled up on the seat, having fallen asleep sometime during the music of the night.

And catches him watching her.

Intently. Unwaveringly.

With wonder and devotion shining in his undead blue irises.

He seems to realize this was wrong to her. And shies diffidently away.

She insists on food.

He looks at her.

She changes her harsh demand to a gentle request.

And he sits alert and stunned by her petition to his lost humanity.

I know she will run when he leaves. I want to tell her she doesn't have to.

But I am silent.

He knows it too. He tries to gesture for her to remain safe within this space.

Knowing that she won't. Hoping that she will.

And of course, she doesn't.

My nonexistent heart cracks in my hollow molding when she leaves.

They will kill her and eat her. Or turn her effervescent living beauty into a cold, lifeless thing like them.

Unless he protects her. Unless he saves her. Unless he keeps her safe.

* * *

><p>Against all odds, against all probability, they return.<p>

Together.

Unharmed.

With her needed sustenance.

And I rejoice silently within my glass world.

She sits and eats. And relishes the amber liquid he timidly offers.

He sits and watches her, once more captivated and enthralled.

She relays her desire to leave.

And it crushes his tentative hope.

_He loves you. He will fade away into dust without you._

It is an impossible situation.

She is living.

She cannot stay.

He is dead.

He cannot leave.

And so they ignore all the complications of their lives and go for a car ride.

They do not take me with them though I silently plead for it.

But I wish them well.

Driving in the bright light and life and joy of the sun.

* * *

><p>The living eat a lot. The undead do not.<p>

And ceramic figures trapped within the confines of a snow globe none at all.

He watches her as she eats. Unaware that he is staring again and she may take umbrage.

But she does not.

Simply moves away to redirect attention onto something else rather than her.

The vinyl records.

_Play something. Play anything. Make it more alive. You. Him. Me._

And she does.

And she is. And he is. And I am.

She dances. And he watches, unbridled delight tracing his scarred face.

He grows more alive, this undead being.

Grows more animate, more hopeful, more happy.

Watching her.

She pulls him to his feet. Spins him.

He almost smiles.

And her dazzling countenance shining like Heaven in my glass world.

She moves and he follows.

She speaks and he listens.

She wanders and he watches.

She reads and he waits.

She laughs and he lightens.

She questions and he answers.

She cries and he comforts.

And she lets him.

And then later, in the dark, as he removes himself from her presence, she flees.

Again.

And I sorrow.

_Do not let her go! Please! She is all we have!_

And he follows.

And I am alone again.

_Please come back for me. Do not leave me here alone. Please come back and take me with you._

Will they?

I do not know.

I wait, forever still and quiet within the confines of my watery world.

And loyally hold the hands of my cold prince.

Imagining the yearning zombie and his blond light alive together in the sun.

* * *

><p><strong>This fic came out of a joke about me writing parts of Warm Bodies from the perspective of a sentient snow globe. Yeah, I'm owning it. ;)<strong>

**And listening to the director commentary of Jonathan Levine, Teresa Palmer, and Nicholas Hoult who became obsessed with tracking the snow globe. Right in the middle of the final zombie fight scene, he bursts out with 'wonder how that snow globe's doing?' And I laughed out loud and then thought oh my gosh, you're right! *facepalms self* Look away, please, I am such a dork.**

**And, listening to 'Through the Glass' by Stone Sour about eleven _dozen_ times.**

**So thank you to my loyal ChiefPam and brigid1318 for choosing to believe in the snowglobe and review this story. ;)**

**Thanks to Voodoo-Mutant-Child who may or may not believe in the snowglobe but took the time to speak up anyway.**

**Anyway, everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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